Are you supposed to smell the meat? I can never remember. I mean, I
feel pretty stupid smelling this. It's wrapped in plastic, so it's not
like I'm gonna smell anything anyway. But still, there's this nagging
voice in my head that's telling me I'm supposed to smell the meat.
All the good liquor is locked behind a cabinet. That sucks. If
you want to be a serious drunk, you have to make your intentions known to
the seventeen year-old stock boy with the key. And he's so serious when
he unlocks it. Like it's his dad's stash and he doesn't want to get
You know, if you just look at the picture on the can, Vienna sausages
don't look half-bad.
That guy is singing along to the Muzak. How sad. Oh wait, it's a Billy Joel tune. OK, I understand that.
Why do I feel so much pressure picking out lemons? They're lemons, for
God's sake! They all seem exactly the same to me, yet I see people
sorting through the entire pile, searching for the right one. But
they're just lemons. I'm gonna cut a slice and drop it in my gin. Why
all this pressure?
Why are all these religious candles next to the salsa? Why aren't they
next to the regular candles?
Where's the damn soap? Shouldn't it be here with the rest of the
bathroom supplies? Toothpaste, floss, lotions, no soap. What is this,
the Dewey decimal system?
There's no one else waiting for the bakery, yet the sign says "Take A
Number." Do I take a number? It says "Now Serving 37," but they're not
serving anyone. They're just standing there. I have number 56. I'm
Why do I feel so good about myself when I return the shopping cart to
the pack? It's not that much work, yet I feel like I've done my good
deed for the day. Like I can go ahead and cut off old ladies in the
crosswalk, 'cause I've got good shopping cart karma.